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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668988">Pinned Down</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil'>Merixcil</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2019 [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Torture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2019-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2019-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:14:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>885</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668988</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley gets a grilling regarding his recent activities on Earth</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2019 [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838356</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pinned Down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It seems rather gauche, really. The fire and brimstone is one thing but the inverted cross? Tying your victims to said cross upside down and threatening to rain blood down on them if they don’t talk? Oh sure, there’s the archaic majesty of it all, but it lacks imagination, and so people get tied to the damn thing for weeks at a time because no one else in this godforsaken (literally) organisation has the brains to work out that you have to make people imagine the worst thing that could possibly happen to them and let them interrogate themselves. </p><p>Crowley has had this argument close to five thousand times. To be specific: four thousand nine hundred and seventy eight times, always with Hastur because Ligur more or less doesn’t listen to him unless he really has to. </p><p>It transpires, however, that the relentless press of pure evil against a body particularly attuned to such things is not remotely comfortable. Crowley shifts and wriggles on the cross, his arms spread wide at an angle one could almost call jaunty if it weren’t for the fact that they’re being pulled from his sockets. </p><p>Really, it’s such an obvious design flaw for demons to feel the heat of hell all the worse than angels. You can tell that upstairs lost the plot a bit towards the end of the creation stage. </p><p>Hastur appears out of the fire holding a whip that is probably made from Crowley’s own intestines (it would explain why his stomach has been killing him all morning) and a proper super villain cackle. More accurately: what super villain cackles aspire to be, deep and rich and forever menacing. “The demon Crowley!”</p><p>As if he might have forgotten his own name. Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yes, it’s me. Can you get on with it?”</p><p>Hastur, as it transpires, cannot. He simply has to run through the full list of crimes and omens and slightly baffling things Crowley has done over the past few thousand years like it’s supposed to be news. He’s the one who’s supposed to have kept an eye on him, none of this should come as a surprise. </p><p>“Guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty.” Crowley responds to each crime in turn. Because really, no one’s going to argue that he should be removed from active duty, in a role that he is uniquely situated to do, because he once gave a child fifty pence for an ice cream. He’d only done it so the seagulls would swoop down and steal the bloody thing five minutes later. That kid had cried all the way home, winding up his parents and causing not insignificant stress upon his mother’s colleagues at the nurse’s station the following day after she chose to take her anger out on them as an encore to a poor night’s sleep. </p><p>He could explain it all, if he were given a chance. </p><p>“And finally!” Hastur waves the whip around his head, providing an impressive snap that echoes dramatically around this particular hellish cavern. “Consorting with an angel.”</p><p>Crowley blinks. “I’ve explained this before. It’s beneficial to have a working relationship with the delegation from the Other Side when I’m above ground. It’s perfectly civil, all above board.”</p><p>“Civil.” Hastur hisses the word like it’s poison. “You should have struck the heavenly host down before you let it step within ten feet of you.”</p><p>Crowley tries to imagine Aziraphale taking kindly to being knocked on his bottom and can only presume that there would be an untenable amount of smiting happening in the opposite direction if he were to attempt it. The angel can’t abide rudeness. </p><p>“Some observers have even noted that the two of you behave as if you were friends.” Hastur prompts, shoving the stick of the whip under Crowley’s very upside down chin. </p><p>Now there’s a thought. Wrong word, Crowley thinks. It’s a bit more complicated than that. He attempts a shrug and immediately regrets it as he snaps at least five tendons in the process. “Demons don’t have friends.”</p><p>Hastur’s eyes narrow. He’s always been to clever and too stupid for his own good. He’ll bite the company line though, eventually. </p><p>“I shall think on this, demon Crowley.” Hastur booms on his way back out through the fire tunnel. Just as he’s said every day since he’s brought Crowley here. </p><p>Which must be amounting to many days by now. Crowley was supposed to meet Aziraphale for high tea at Fortnum and Mason on the nineteenth to discuss the balance of labour in the upcoming climate disaster that’s going to put the collective human moral compass through a real ringer. Only seemed fair to be sure they were each getting a fair shot at coming out on top. </p><p>“Wait!” Crowley calls after Hastur’s retreating back. “Please, I’m so bored! Can you at least get me a plant or something to look after?”</p><p>Tending plants is probably un-demonly. Far too close to building a garden. Crowley’s head falls back against the cross and his arms still ache and he may have discovered a loophole in the design of demons that allows them to lose feeling in their legs. Struggle as he might he is at the mercy of Hastur’s patience, which in his experience is the longest stretching substance in the known universe. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This work was originally posted as part of a multi chaptered 'whumptober' fic that I'm trying to split up. If you think you've read it before, you probably have</p><p>Comments on the previous posting of this fic (just ask if you want me to remove yours) include:</p><p>&gt;Tezca: I admit I went looking cause I was curious if there were any Good Omens fic that you might’ve written after reading the Tale Old as Time fic lol and was happy to find one! This is nicely written as well, poor Crowley<br/>&gt;&gt;Merixcil: Thank you! And yes, Crowley does rather find himself getting the worst of both worlds a lot of the time</p></blockquote></div></div>
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